Strange Coincidences
by starrrz
Summary: Midsomer Murders DI Troy finds himself dealing with a case that seems to be leading him back home...
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: So, yeah, the idea of Troy/Scott slash hit me. But how to get them both in the same place at the same time? Hail the emergence of AU fic.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. It's probably a good thing – no murders would ever get solved!**

Mrs Deacon turned the TV set up as the rowing started again. The neighbours, number 32, were always arguing. Once, when the woman – Tracy, Stacey, something like that – had been screaming so much that she'd been sure he was killing her she'd even rang the police. They hadn't thanked her for it; and, when, the day after an anonymous brick had made its way through the glass of the garden shed she'd known who was to blame. She hadn't bothered since.

Next door, Tracy Edwards, a too thin wisp of a woman with dirty blonde hair and arms crisscrossed with red ribbons of scars, flung handfuls of clothing into a battered old case. The thudding against the bedroom door matched the pounding of her heart against her rib cage; the lock, already hanging uselessly from the splintered door frame the only thing between him and her was the heavy chest of drawers left behind by the previous occupants.

She zipped the case with trembling fingers and lifted the kitchen knife from the worn bedspread just as the door finally gave and he fell into the room. Once she would have shrunk back from his larger frame and the wild gleam in his eyes but, now… she felt curiously calm, in control. The way she had in her last year at Barkley Comprehensive, when she'd been Maid Marion to Darren Hicks' Robin Hood and after weeks of sleepless nights and terror over unlearned lines she'd finally found the calm she'd been so desperately searching for just as the curtain rose.

This was no play though and Terence was no Darren Hicks. With a scream she lifted the knife high into the air and plunged it down, years of put downs and bruises and fear rushing from her and mingling with the torrents of blood gushing from the man she'd once believed to be her knight in shining armour.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

DC Chris Shannon clambered out of the car and scurried after the DI on shaky legs. They had been _this_ close to clipping that Porsche and he felt sure that if anybody of a lesser rank drove like that they'd be out on their ear. As it was he resolved to just be thankful they'd made it to the scene in one piece and pushed past a few white suited forensic types to follow the DI upstairs.

Once there a tall, dark haired man in the bedroom doorway waved them over, a grin on his face despite the gravity of the situation. Scowling, Chris made a resolution to always look grim faced at murder scenes; it was the kind of thing that said a lot about a man.

"Ah, Gavin; I was wondering when you were going to put in an appearance." The doctor thumbed over his shoulder at the body, "He's in a bit of a mess though, I'm afraid." Addressing Chris he said simply, "you might be better off not seeing. It's not a pretty sight." Chris glared and followed the DI regardless. He was not some wet behind the ears PC anymore and he resented being treated like one, especially by the likes of Dr. David Thomas. Forensic doctors were supposed to be balding middle aged men who wore bowties and collected slimy things in jars, _or _mysterious but beautiful women pushing 40. Thomas was neither; all bronzed skin and rippling muscle he looked more like a fitness guru or a forward for the All Blacks than someone who spent half their time poking and prodding dead bodies in a room completely void of natural light. It was the sort of thing to make you sick.

Peering over the DI's shoulder at the _mess _on the ground he was forced to reassess what it took to make you want to empty your stomach of the bowl and half of sugar puffs you'd got down you before work.

There was blood everywhere; thick viscous red smears up the white washed walls and deep dark blotches on the beige carpet. The body was laying face down in between the bed and the door, the trails of red behind him suggesting he'd tried to make his escape before the blood loss had finally done him in. Chris swallowed and tried to pay attention to the conversation between the doctor and DI Troy.

"7 separate entry wounds… frenzied attack… no sign of the weapon… door almost off it's hinges… girlfriend's up and gone…" 

The peals of a mobile phone broke in and Chris gladly followed when the DI motioned his hand, casting an apologetic glance at the doctor and fumbling for his car keys, phone pressed tightly to his ear all the while.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The car ride was short and mercifully silent; Gavin thought wistfully of the little bottle of pills he'd left on the kitchen table. "For stress" the doctor had said as he'd pressed a hurriedly written prescription slip into his hand. Lately, as much as he hated to admit it, he'd needed them. He glanced at Shannon's pallid complexion as they waited for the lights to change and, not for the first time, cursed his naïveté of exactly what being a DI would entail. All he'd thought about as he'd been studying for his exams was the status it would give him and how proud Tom would be of him; he'd scarcely given a thought to the mountains of extra paperwork and the pressure of responsibility bearing down on his shoulders.

It was a relief when the dull brick façade of the old industrial estate came into view and after parking the car - with none of his usual gusto - clunked the door shut and led the way to where Sandra was waiting.

\/\/\/\/\/\/

The place swarmed with men (and the odd woman) in white, all hemmed in by yards of police tape. Gavin felt sick, it had been pure force of will that stopped him following Shannon's lead and losing his barely digested breakfast to the murky water of the canal.

One bloody and brutal murder per half hour was quite enough for any man he reasoned as he watched DT (as David insisted on being referred to) examine the corpse. The back of the skull had been completely smashed in, fragments of bone littering the tow path. As they'd lifted the body onto a stretcher he'd had a glimpse of the face, just enough to see it had suffered a similar fate. In the absence of any form of identification on his person they'd be waiting for a fingerprint match. Gavin hoped to God the man was on the database as there was scarcely enough left of him to get an ID any other way.

Later, after a round of pitying looks from the forensic team as he'd led Shannon away and a glass of water from the café on Millbank Road; after he'd stood before the Superintendent and won an unconvinced commitment to a dive team to dredge the canal (where he presumed they'd find the blunt instrument that had caved the man's head in), he'd found himself in the DCI's office being patted on the shoulder and told it got too much for everyone at times. That nobody would think any less of him if he had to take things easy for a bit. He'd riled at that.

It _wasn't_ too much for him.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

250 miles away DS Dan Scott slouched back further into the forgiving seat of his sofa and popped another can of lager, tray of take away curry balanced precariously on his knee. Not necessarily his preferred way of spending an evening but the lovely PC Angela had just dropped him in favour of that foreign git Marco from forensics. Sighing he palmed the remote and flicked through the channels, each looking as inane as the one before it.

Work had done his head in today. For once they'd had no case and he'd been stuck in the office with Barnaby, filling out form after form and listening as the older man detailed all the faults he'd made during their last call out. It hadn't done a lot for his mood. And then later, when he'd been talking to Cully in the station foyer as she'd waited for her dad, the man had walked in and given him a look so sour it could have curdled milk a mile away.

Ah, Cully. He dropped the remote to the floor and settled on a game show, glittery back drops and old people in oversized glasses. Barnaby had seen to it that that had gone tits up too. (The tits, unfortunately, being very definitely of the figurative kind.) He didn't know why but Barnaby had seemed to have it in for him from the moment he'd met him, had made it clear Scott would _never_ fit in in Midsomer, would _never_ be good enough for his daughter. Would never even live up to his expectations in a sergeant – God forbid he should even _try_ to match up to the legendary Troy. And how many times had he heard that name since his arrival? Troy this, Troy that, Troy the bloody other. If he ever laid eyes on the perfect Sergeant Troy he'd be sorely tempted to swing for him, just to see if his Mother Theresa act could withstand it, or if the simpering git would slug him back.

He snorted slightly at the frankly ridiculous turn his thoughts were taking and, squirming slightly in an attempt to get comfortable, shovelled another forkful of madras into his mouth. Grimacing he dropped the tray to the floor in disgust; even the takeaways round here were foul. He hated Midsomer.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"DC Shannon, PC O'Reilly; care to share whatever it is you're finding so amusing?"

Shannon squirmed in his seat, flushing a bright red; Gavin guiltily acknowledged the stab of twisted pleasure the sight brought him - he was in a foul mood and could see no reason why everyone else should be exempt. Shannon sunk further into his seat and gave a quiet "No, Sir". PC O'Reilly following it up with a murmured, "sorry, sir".

Satisfied with their response he returned to the power point display he'd put together that morning. He didn't like to dwell on why he had nothing better to do than get to work early and arrange stuff like this. He hoped it was professionalism rather than sad tosser-ism.

He ran through what they had so far; yesterday's door to door had put Tracy Edwards firmly in the frame for her husband's murder and he was due at a press conference in under an hour to make an appeal for any information of her whereabouts. "Canal man" was clinging to his secrets, there were no usable footprints, and there was still no sign of the murder weapon, most likely a crow bar or something similar if forensics were to be believed. He'd been told, rather brusquely, that he'd have to wait for more info – they'd been collecting fragments of skull all the previous afternoon.

The team looked less than enthused. "So," Gavin gave it his best 'let's get cracking' voice, "DC Shannon, I want you to go through the CCTV footage of the lane coming off of Barrow Row. PC Anderson, you're on the tapes that came from the old warehouses. Our man must have passed one of them to end up on that part of the canal."

"Unless", DC Barry interrupted, "he climbed over the fence and crossed the bridge down by the park." Gavin tried to be gracious as his mistake was pointed out, and gave Barry the task of picking up the footage from the camera overlooking the park with the bare minimum of teeth gritting. He was quite proud of himself.

A few minutes later and he was dismissing the team, and making his way down to the car park. His public were waiting.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzzz."

Dan warily cracked an eye open, flung out an arm and groped around for the perpetrator of such an ungodly noise. It was only after sticking his hand in the remainder of his curry and knocking over a still mostly full can of lager that he succeeded in getting a hold on his mobile phone, pressing the green button and positioning it against his ear.

"Scott, where are you?" The voice sounded deafening and his entire body seemed to reverberate in protest. It could only be Barnaby. Just marvellous, what better way was there to be woken up?

"Sir? What time is it?" He winced, the croak scraping his throat raw. There was no way he'd drunk enough last night to feel _this_ bad.

"It's practically midday Scott, what are you doing?" The tone softened somewhat, "what's wrong with your voice? Are you ill?"

Dan considered the question; he was currently lying half on, half off, his too narrow sofa, his head was throbbing, his limbs ached and his throat felt like someone had taken sandpaper to it during the night. In isolation none of this was particularly unusual, but when combined he decided he could, quite reasonably, declare himself ill.

"Yes, sir."

He could hear Barnaby talking to someone else on the other end of the line, something about following up a lead in Midsomer Newton; probably another murder. God, how he hated Midsomer. "Alright, well," Barnaby huffed, "I'll get someone to cover you. Ring in tomorrow if you're not coming in." The line went dead.

Scott scowled and dropped the offending piece of technology back onto the coffee table, uncaring of the now sizable pool of lager currently dripping onto the floor, wiped his hand on his jeans (he'd wash them later) rolled over and went back to sleep.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Tracy, if you're watching this, please, get in touch with us. You're not in any trouble; we just want to eliminate you from our enquiries."

Mrs Twaine tsked as her knitting needles click clacked against each other, taking in the young inspector's placating tone and the harsh, unmoved expression on the faces of the next of kin. It was all you heard on the news these days – murder, rape, vandalism. Not like when she and John had been young. Hearing footsteps on the gravelled path and the back door opening she placed her knitting in its basket and rose to make some tea. She would have missed it entirely had she not knocked the TV guide to the floor. There, on the screen was the girl from the train station. The one who'd been so rude to her the day before.

Momentarily paralysed with thoughts of being chief witness, of her picture in the Midsomer Gazette shaking the hand of that amiable looking detective, she just managed to reach for a biro and jot the number down before the news reporter moved on to the birth of a cloned lamb in a laboratory somewhere in Germany.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The silence between them was awkward and uncomfortable, more like complete strangers than brother and sister. Reluctantly Dan was forced to acknowledge that strangers were really what they were now. It had been months since he'd heard from Tracy, longer since he'd seen her.

Sensing his questioning gaze Tracy got to her feet and paced the cramped living room. She looked awful; skinny and tired and when she'd reached her arms up to grasp the sugar from its space in the kitchen cupboard he'd caught a glimpse of angry red marks marring her pale wrist.

"What are you doing here?"

She stopped pacing and their eyes met - hers over bright and slightly feral although she'd already promised him she wasn't on anything. He was the first to look away.

"You always were a bleedin' liar, you know that? All that crap you used to give me over the phone about just coming home. How you wouldn't tell none of your pig mates about the drugs. Well, now I have and all you can do is point the finger at me. I ain't even fucking done nothing!" She ended on a yell and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her. He sank back into the sofa and, as he heard her footsteps thump up the stairs, rubbed small circles against his temples.

He still felt like shit.

After Tracy had forced him from his sickbed by banging relentlessly at the door at six in the morning ("I've been stuck out here all fucking night") he'd rang the station to tell them he wouldn't be coming in. The false chirpiness of the receptionist had grated on his nerves, imploring him to "get well soon" with the same patronising ring of "have a nice day". It felt like food poisoning, he knew he shouldn't have put any faith in Midsomer's culinary _delights_. And it didn't seem like anyone was missing him at work; DC Jones was covering his caseload. Dan wished him luck, whoever he was.

Maybe he shouldn't be so hard on Tracy. Maybe she really had changed, wasn't going to steal his hi-fi and the contents of his wallet while he slept fitfully in a painkiller induced coma. Maybe. Or, and although it hurt him somewhere inside to confront it, she was here because she needed him to dig her out of trouble - again. Uncaring of the fact that him keeping quiet to protect her junkie boyfriend had cost him his promotion, his place at the Met and left him stranded in the backwater hellhole that was Midsomer.

Sighing he reached for the bottle of painkillers he'd found in the bathroom cabinet, half hidden by a flask of foul smelling home made shampoo some old biddy from Midsomer Mallow had pressed on him. He'd worry about what Tracy wanted tomorrow when the throbbing in his head had stopped threatening to split it in two.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Chris squinted at the figure on the screen in disbelief; it just couldn't be… Pulling the file from beneath a sheaf of photocopies, he flipped through it till dirty blond hair and a sullen expression caught his eye. He glanced at it then the screen, then the photo again. It was. He was 90 certain and surely that was more than reasonable doubt?

He hovered as the stills were pulled from the CCTV, peered over shoulders and fidgeted as the figure was homed in on and blown up, dashing away to present his good work to the DI just before the duty technician could say something he'd later regret.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Another day, another late night at the office.

Gavin sat staring at the grainy black and white stills in his lap. Despite the poor quality the resemblance was so clear he'd be willing to swear on oath it was the same person. Tracy Edwards looking nervously about her as she made her way from the narrow towpath across to the dimly lit alleyways that led into the town centre, dragging a suitcase behind her. It made her chief witness to not one but two murders. If the strands of long blond hair forensics had found clinging to canal man's bloodied fingers were anything to go by, it made her prime suspect too.

Finally moving, much to the grievance of his tense neck and shoulders, he brought Tracy's mug shot up on the screen. She had the sallow complexion of an addict, greasy hair and wore a pair of enormous gold hooped earrings, the likes of which he didn't think he'd ever seen back in Midsomer. She had a record – possession, minor dealing, breach of the peace – nothing she'd ever done time for. Nothing to suggest she was on her way to committing double homicide.

It was something that hadn't even occurred to him – that the two murders might be connected. Back in Midsomer it would have been his first thought but, here, in Middlesbrough there was no reason to link the two in his mind. At least no reason till the damning evidence was placed under your nose.

They had to find the woman. The televised appeal had met with little success – the few alleged sightings had led nowhere – and, with the assurance from everyone who knew him that Terence Edwards had been a violent drunk of a wife beater whom nobody would miss, they'd been focussing on canal man. Jason Spencer, he corrected himself. The man had been done numerous times on various drug related offences, moving slowly from possession to small time dealing to getting involved with the big boys.

Despite all their leg work nobody had heard or seen anything on the night in question; at least they weren't willing to admit they had. But now… they had a break through. Spencer must have been linked to Tracy somehow. He reread her file, wishing once again he knew where the hell she could be. She'd grown up in London, even had a brother in the Met (and wasn't that ironic), but when he'd put in a call to her address there the girl's mother had answered. Told him she hadn't heard from her in over a year. That she'd rang the Middlesbrough police department faithfully every week and why hadn't they done anything about it and searched for her runaway daughter? All her old haunts had been checked and there was still no sign of her.

He _must_ have missed something. He poured over the character statements uniform had gathered, her background file they'd had sent up from the Met. Rifling through it again a name jumped out at him. He recognised it. He just didn't know where from. Glancing at the clock (3am) he finally admitted defeat, swept everything littering his desk into one semi-tidy pile and made his way for home.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Cautiously Dan stretched and was pleased to discover an absence of head splitting pain. Just the slight twinges in his neck and back that came from spending yet another night on the sofa. He was even more pleased to hear the sound of the shower running – clearly Tracy hadn't made off with his valuables. Flicking on the TV he was met with the sight of a cheery faced BBC news reporter. He watched the screen, mind elsewhere as they made their way through the morning's news - till one name broke through the haze in his mind.

"DI Troy of the Middlesbrough police department spoke to the press this morning…"

Suddenly the TV had Dan's rapt attention.

"Is it true that the two murders are connected?"

"We're not ruling out the possibility." Dan was momentarily stunned at the lack of upper middle class speech impediment he'd always felt sure Troy must have. He also lacked the weedy book-boy frame and knitted sweater. Still, he supposed, the man _was_ at work.

"Have you found Edwards' wife yet? Do you think she did both?"

"We're still searching for Mrs. Edwards, and we appeal again to the public for any information to her whereabouts."

The feed went back to the studio before a (rather unflattering) picture of Tracy flashed up on the screen. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Didn't hear his sister come up behind him.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Troy drummed his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel; the traffic was always hell coming out of Middlesbrough. He'd just arrived at the office when a phone call had come through from the office handling the appeal line. He played the tape they'd given him back again. A Mrs Twaine from Midsomer Mallow had seen Tracy Edwards at Causton train station, at least it was a woman who looked a lot like her and, of course, she'd only had her reading glasses on because she'd left her others at her daughters. She lived in Birmingham and had two Charles Spaniels, and she'd said not to bother the police with it, but she, that is to say herself, hadn't been able to sleep…

Gavin thumbed the stop button; he knew exactly where Tracy had been heading. He couldn't believe he hadn't recognised the name straight away – all the times he'd heard Tom complain about the man over the phone or in his e-mails. DS Dan Scott, formerly of the Metropolitan police force, was Tracy's brother. He should have checked it out properly. Should have bloody checked out the brother if he recognised the name or not. Maybe he _was_ buckling under the pressure.

By early afternoon Gavin found himself on the familiar roads into Midsomer and, ignoring the official police stance on the matter, fumbled for his mobile as he wound through the narrow country lanes and rang Tom, asking him to meet him at Scott's home address.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"Tracy," he swallowed as he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed to the back of his neck, "just calm down, yeah."

He had no idea how it had come to this. It seemed like, if not yesterday, then only a few months ago when he'd been helping Tracy learn her lines for the school play and hiding spiders under her pillows. All the things a big brother ought to do. He wondered how differently her life would have panned her out if she hadn't met _him_, that junkie scumbag, Terence.

She'd spent hours screaming at him, sobbing, all the while refusing to relinquish her hold on the handgun she'd had hidden in her handbag. He didn't doubt that Terence or Spencer (the bastard who'd supplied them both with enough to get them hooked and then forced her to sell her body for the next fix) deserved to die. But… she was his little sister. How could she have done it? Especially in the way she described it – bludgeoning two grown men to death. If it had been his case he'd have dismissed her as soon as he laid eyes on her wasted limbs and delicate bone structure.

But then she'd always been full of surprises – and the forceful anger emanated from her. Rage gave people strength they normally wouldn't have and if she'd caught then unawares, if there hadn't been too much of a struggle… He'd listened and threatened and finally pleaded but she wouldn't back down. Murmuring even now that she couldn't trust him, couldn't let him leave now he knew. She would do it as well. He had to get out of there, tell someone.

He felt the gun being pulled away from his neck and she crossed to the other side of the room. They were in his bedroom now, she'd marched him up at gun point – in a sick parody of the spy games they'd played as children – and threatened him till he handed over the contents of his wallet and the 150 quid he had saved in an envelope for emergencies. Even being a copper couldn't override the fact he was his mother's son when it came to hoarding money. Seeing her with her back turned he seized his chance and made a break for the door but only managed three steps before his world went black.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Gavin hammered at the door, glanced briefly at the curtain drawn windows, hammered again and then, finally, lunged his shoulder against it till the wood splintered.

"Hello?" He called out into the dim light. No answer. He made for the first open door; it led into the living room. Wrinkling his nose he took in the mess, empty lager cans and the smell of stagnant food. Shutting the door behind him he pushed on and made his way up the narrow staircase. There were two doors, the first shut tight and the second slightly ajar. He approached the second cautiously; his old DCI only a few feet behind him.

Tom, after briefly chastising him for not giving the road his full attention, had told him that Scott hadn't been in work for days. For all he knew the man could be _anywhere_. His expression had been one of grim determination as he'd pulled up at the end of the road – it didn't bear thinking about that your sergeant, a man you'd spent the last year and half working 10 hour shifts with, could be an a accomplice to murder.

Sucking in a calming breath Gavin pushed the door gently to be met with the sight of a figure sprawled across the carpet, his head to the side facing the doorway.

He recognised the face from the picture in his records, Dan Scott. Panic flooded his senses for a moment, a smashed bedside lamp lay in pieces around him, the metallic scent of blood was thick in the air and why was it he couldn't he detect any rise and fall of the man's chest? He dropped to his knees beside the motionless figure, abating his fears somewhat as, on closer inspection, Scott was breathing - albeit shallowly. He pulled back his eyelids, taking in the heavily dilated pupils and the cold clammy feel of the man's skin.

"Come on, Dan. Can you hear me? Come on, wake up!"

He was looking up at Tom for help when he heard a scuffle behind him. The room that his cursory glance had deemed empty was, in fact, far from it. Tracy had been crouched against the wall, half hidden by the bed and a small nightstand. She had that air of insanity about her that Gavin had come to recognise from years spent in a county of madmen.

She aimed a shotgun in his direction with unsteady hands.

"Tracy? He needs an ambulance; can you put the gun down?" His heart beat wildly in his chest as he tried to keep his voice calm.

"I didn't mean to hurt him."

"I know, just put the gun down."

"No!" Gavin backed off, he'd been inching his way closer to her but now thought better of it. He sat back in his previous position, hand circling Scott's wrist loosely in order to reassure himself there was still a pulse.

Tom took over and Gavin felt nothing but relief.

"Tracy, come on, this isn't helping anyone."

She was looking at Tom, but through him, clearly smashed off her face on something. He gripped Scott's wrist tighter without conscious thought. The pads of his fingertips pressed against the weak pulse point.

"I've nothing now…" The words were heavily slurred and she seemed to sway where she stood, "I can't go to prison. I can't." She lifted the gun and released the safety catch, "I can't!"

"Get down!" Tom yelled and he dropped as fast as he could, arms over his head and nose far too close to the bloody wound in Scott's skull. The gun blast rang in his ears and when he looked back over his shoulder he had to clench his eyes shut at the sight. She'd shot herself, fallen to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been snipped, gun still clasped limply in her now lifeless hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Gavin took a deep breath, smoothed down the already uncrumpled fabric of his black suit and followed Tom into the imposing looking church. The service didn't last long, although to him it seemed as though every second was a lifetime. A lifetime of contemplation at the part he'd played in reaching this point. After, he'd slipped away, gulping down lungfuls of cold November air as he strode purposefully towards the car park; all the while ignoring the burning gaze of the one black clad figure he'd spent all morning trying to avoid.

He hadn't seen Scott since the hospital. Hours sat in that uncomfortable plastic chair, fighting the urge to simply close his eyes and give into exhaustion as he watched the other man sleep. Tom had taken the scene over when back up had arrived, helping him to clamber into the ambulance with Scott, too numb with shock to protest. Not his best hour.

And so he'd resolved that if he wasn't going to be at the scene to sort things out then it was his duty to tell Scott what had happened. How his sister had blasted a hole through her brain because he'd messed up, because he wasn't up to the job he'd been promoted to.

Problem was that out of the first five or six hours they spent at the hospital Scott had only been lucid for a few minutes - not long after they'd been brought in he had opened his eyes and fixed Gavin with a look that had made his hands feel twitchy and asked him who he was.

"DI Troy… Gavin." He'd replied and had had to look away, even drugged to the eyeballs Scott's gaze held an intensity that made him uncomfortable, "I used to do your job."

Scott had muttered something to himself and giggled – his breath so laboured Gavin couldn't help but worry. "I should be a DI" The words had been said with conviction and Gavin had glanced at him, raised an eyebrow before focusing once more on his hands. "It's true, I was going to be. Till I got sent here" Scott had scowled. "I hate Midsomer."

Back in the present Gavin unlocked the car door and slid into the seat, cradling his head in his hands as he tried not to think about the sight of Da – Scott sobbing as they lowered his sister's coffin into the ground. After drawing in a shaky breath he stuck the key in the ignition and forced his thoughts away from the man till he was safely ensconced in his Middlesbrough flat. As he lay alone in bed he let his thoughts drift back, finally, to that scene in the hospital.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

He'd set a coffee down on the bedside table and sat down, fidgeting with the plastic cup in his own hands. Scott ignored it, red rimmed eyes staring blankly at the off white ceiling.

"I…" He'd bit his lip and tried again, "I'm sorry." He wanted to cry. Scott had taken the news so badly, the doctor had forced him from the ward for the better part of an hour so as not to aggravate his mental state any further. Even after they'd let him back in Scott hadn't said anything, just stared blankly ahead. He was just about to leave, to go and get some much needed fresh air and find a secluded spot where a few tears would go unnoticed when Scott finally spoke.

"In a way I'm glad, how sick does that make me? Glad my own sister is dead." The words were terrible, spoken in a flat emotionless tone that scared him more than the sobs and anger from earlier, but he made no attempt to interrupt.

"When we were younger we were so close. Told each other everything. But she met _him_", the first touch of emotion had coloured the man's voice, "Terence, he was older than her. I told her not to mess with him, that he was bad news. Practically a regular at the station. She didn't listen… Started spending all her time with him, smoking dope and partying. Then she got hooked on heroin and I couldn't help her. She didn't _want_ me to help her."

He'd just let the words tumble from Scott's lips, wishing there was something he could do.

"At first it was only small time dealing and nicking stuff from me and mum. Nothing massive. Then they fell in with Spencer, got involved in bigger and bigger jobs. Drug trafficking out of Slovenia, Terence was in it up to his neck. I had the evidence… But she came to me begging and I couldn't say no. Burnt the tape in our back garden while she and Terry packed up their stuff and disappeared. It came out, of course, but without the evidence and none of the other runners willing to talk we had nothing on him. The DCI found out what I'd done – the inconsistencies we had 'cos of Terry caused the case to start falling apart, half of them walked away free men. I got transferred down here."

"I was so angry with her. Told her I never wanted to see her again last time I spoke to her on the phone. And all the time that bastard was hitting her about, him and Spencer pimping her out." His voice broke.

"And now," he finally turned to look at him, gaze dark and desperate, "she's dead."

The tears came and he'd taken his hand, squeezing it, reassuring him there was someone there, just as he had as Scott had lay unconscious.


End file.
